


The Adventure of the Running Man

by EbonyKnight, RomanyWalker



Series: Greg Lestrade And The Adventure Of The Alternative Lifestyle [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 18:25:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12138438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomanyWalker/pseuds/RomanyWalker
Summary: Mycroft Holmes in running gear. Really, who could resist that?Part of a series. Aside from a couple of minor references to the overarching relationship, this can be read as a piece of standalone fluffy Mystrade smut.





	The Adventure of the Running Man

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: we do not own Sherlock.

Greg closed the massive front door of Mycroft’s house - apparently _not_ a mansion, according to said owner - behind him, pocketing the keys once it was securely locked. Something about the fact that he had _keys to Mycroft’s house_ still gave him a buzz, and that buzz went a long way towards easing the residual tension from a fruitlessly wasted day. Quite why the higher-ups had insisted he be present at a seminar about the forensics of one of his own damned cases he didn’t know, but insisted they had. Willpower and sheer bullheadedness had got him to the midway point, but even those could only stretch so far, and he’d eventually made a run for it. An early start to a weekend with his partners was far more appealing than re-visiting just how an antique crochet hook had ended up embedded in Maria Joannou’s aorta without leaving pints of blood on the scene, and Whittard was more than capable of filling his shoes for the last leg.

The entrance hall was blessedly cool after the heat outside, and Greg sent thanks heavenward that Mycroft was loaded enough to have proper air conditioning at home as he wended his way towards the kitchen in search of a drink. It was as he passed the door to the study that he heard it, and he stopped in his tracks, listening intently; there was a rhythmic dull pounding coming from deeper into the house, and it definitely wasn’t something he’d heard on previous visits. Pulling his phone out in case he needed to call for help, he followed the sound, eyes and ears alert for any sign of trouble.

The corridor was deserted, with no sign of Mycroft, Sherlock, or the Stuarts, the couple who cared for the house and gardens. Greg cautiously made his way past the formal dining room and turned a corner into a part of the house that was new to him, at which point the noise became louder and clearer. There was something distinctly familiar about it, but Mycroft’s house was definitely _not_ the gym he paid for the privilege of not using, so surely it couldn’t be‒

It _was_ , Greg realised as he drew level with an open door, breath leaving him in a whoosh. There, right in front of him, was Mycroft - in _running gear_ , no less - jogging on a treadmill, his legs and arse drawing Greg’s attention like a firework display. Not entirely in control of his own actions, he stepped past the suit of armour flanking the door and declared, “Mycroft Holmes, I’m arresting you for being in possession of an illegally fine arse.”

To Greg’s surprise, Mycroft startled and stopped the treadmill, jumping off in one smooth move. “Greg! You’re early. I didn’t hear you arrive.” With the machine between them, he looked at Greg with something akin to the air of a Victorian maiden clutching at an eiderdown for modesty. 

With long, shapely legs, and a spectacularly fine arse covered in such form fitting clothing right there, Greg would have defied anyone - _anyone_ \- with an interest in men to keep their eyes on Mycroft’s face. “I am,” he said, gaze drifting down his partner’s torso to where he’d seen a tantalising flash of pale abdomen where the top had been lifting as Mycroft jogged. “I’ll have to skip out early more often if this is what you get up to.” 

Gripping the handle of the treadmill and looking extremely self-conscious, Mycroft explained, “I took it up a number of years ago. It’s the convenience, you understand.” 

Not wanting to make Mycroft any more uncomfortable than he already was, Greg fought the urge to move closer. Resisting telling him just how fucking attractive how was, however, was a lost cause. “It’s a good look on you. Christ, that was the sexiest thing I’ve seen this year.”

Mycroft gave a nervous sort of half-laugh and coloured. “You weren’t actually here when Sherlock turned up in motorcycle leathers, of course,” he said, crossing to the table holding his hydration supplies and picking up his water bottle.

Watching Mycroft’s throat work as he drank, Greg felt heat pooling in his groin. “I’ve seen Sherlock in his leathers,” he replied, knowing that that particular memory would be a long time in fading, “and I repeat, _that_ was the sexiest thing I’ve seen this year.” 

“I, ah. I should shower,” came the uncharacteristically hesitant response.

Being careful not to push too far when Mycroft was so obviously discomfited, Greg crossed the room towards him, watching for any sign that it was doing more harm than good. “You’re fucking gorgeous. I’m going to be imagining you like this for _weeks_.”

Mycroft lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders. “I’m flattered.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t flattery,” Greg clarified, finally close enough to touch. He lifted a hand, threading the fingers through Mycroft’s fine hair, and cupped the back of his head, using the grip to pull his partner in for a tender kiss. “I wish you could see what I see.” 

Lips still touching, Mycroft replied, “I’m perfectly happy with the view I have, thank you.” 

“That makes two of us, then,” Greg smiled. He ran his hand down Mycroft’s back to cup his arse and pulled him forward until their bodies were touching from chest to hip. 

Apparently disinclined to continue that particular conversation, Mycroft briefly kissed Greg, lips warm and firm, until, “I really do need to bathe.” 

“I could do with a cold shower myself.” Greg pressed one last sweet, lingering kiss to Mycroft’s lips and detached the hand from his arse. “I’ll have you a drink ready for when you’re done.” 

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied, stepping past Greg and heading towards the door. 

Greg watched Mycroft walk away, eyes magnetically drawn to his firm arse and all seven miles of leg. “Fuck it,” he decided impulsively, and followed quickly, catching Mycroft’s hand before he’d taken five steps down the hall.

A barely there expression of surprise flittered across his face, but Greg saw nothing that indicated that his attention was unwelcome. “Tell me to and I’ll leave you alone, but _fuck_ \--” He took his partner’s lips in a hot, demanding kiss, and it wasn’t until Mycroft made a sound of surprise that Greg realised that he had backed him into the wall, right between two portraits.

Unlike those shared in the home gym, this kiss started heatedly and quickly spiralled into the realm of indecent. As their lips and tongues moved together in a passionate, familiar dance, Greg cupped Mycroft’s jaw with one hand and moved the other slowly down his back until he’d acquired a firm grip on his arse. Arousal thrumming through his veins, he used the grip to pull their bodies impossibly closer, unable to restrain a low moan when their erections pressed together more firmly through their clothes. 

Eventually, Mycroft pulled back just enough to be able to speak. “Greg,” he breathed into Greg’s mouth, “Greg, not here. The terror alert has been raised to critical; my personal security arrangements have been ungraded.”

As turned on as he was, it took Greg a good few seconds to engage his brain. By the time it was operational enough to have worked out that Mycroft’s security being upgraded meant that the house was being watched more closely than normal - and that there was a good chance they were visible through the full-length windows at the end of the corridor - he had his lips attached to the sensitive spot below his partner’s left ear. “Where?”

“Bedroom,” Mycroft replied, breath catching when Greg’s hand worked its way under his form fitting top to caress his back.

Knowing how much the other man enjoyed his stubble, Greg ensured that his chin made contact with the sensitive area he’d just detached his mouth from; the sound of appreciation at the contact made Greg’s cock throb. “That’s miles away,” he protested, having absolutely no desire to let go of his lover for long enough for them to get upstairs.

“Right now we’re being watched by at least two agents.” Mycroft started to manoeuvre them away from the wall, though did absolutely nothing to put any space between them.

“Fuck the agents,” Greg growled, working a hand down the back of Mycroft’s running trousers and pants. “I won’t make it to your bedroom.”

“No, Greg; we have to move,” Mycroft insisted between kisses, edging them towards the reception room next to the home gym.

The fingers of the hand Greg had down Mycroft’s trousers quested as they got incrementally closer to the room, teasing into his lover’s crack almost of their own volition. “I’m sorry,” he panted, interrupting himself to suck Mycroft’s bottom lip in his own mouth. “It’s just you...in this....your fucking _legs_.” The quiet noise his partner made when a fingertip ghosted over his hole had Greg’s blood running hot, and, lips brushing Mycroft’s jaw, he continued, “I can’t even think straight. I just need you now.”

“Greg, we should‒” Mycroft started, only to cut himself off by kissing Greg. He leant against the door frame and Greg followed the movement, not wanting to lose contact for even a second. Several long, glorious moments were lost to the kiss, intense and needy and hot in equal measure, and Greg’s worldview shrank to encompass only his lover’s lips, the heat of his mouth, his delightfully agile tongue, and the hot, hard length pressed against his hip.

After a couple more abortive attempts at talking sense, all of which gave way to gasps and kisses, Mycroft made a sudden, definite lunge through the doorway and into the room, and their respective grips on each other meant that Greg was taken along for the ride. Had he the brain cells spare to analyse the move, the older man would have been impressed that his lips didn’t lose contact with Mycroft’s for even a second. “Here?” he pleaded against the other man’s ear, voice gone rough with desire.

“I should‒ The bedroom’s only‒” came Mycroft’s response, but he broke off with a quiet moan when Greg applied his lips and teeth to just the right spot. With a totally uncharacteristic curse - and Greg knew he would be replaying _that_ in his head for days - Mycroft dragged them to the floor, where Greg presumed they were well out of the line of sight of their observers. 

The speed with which Mycroft had him pressed into the rug set Greg’s pulse racing. Almost without conscious thought, he had a hand down the front of Mycroft’s pants, where he found the other man rock hard and already leaking precome. “Beds are overrated,” he murmured, nosing under the collar of the other man’s form-fitting top and sealing his mouth to the newly exposed collarbone. 

Mycroft gasped as Greg thumbed the wet head of his cock, moving into the grip despite the awkward angle. “I like my bed.” 

With less dexterity than usual, Mycroft’s hands started working on Greg’s shirt buttons. Knowing that these things progressed more smoothly when one’s hands weren’t carnally, Greg reluctantly removed his hand from Mycroft’s pants and helped the other man to wrestle the jacket and shirt from his shoulders. 

“Me too, but not when it’s that fucking far away,” Greg countered, hips lifting just enough to press his throbbing cock against Mycroft’s thigh. 

“You are so‒” Mycroft started, but Greg was destined to never to find out what he was; the other man kissed him hard and then eeled downwards, applying his lips and teeth to Greg’s nipples and abdomen as he went.

Arching into the heat of Mycroft’s mouth, Greg threaded his fingers into the other man’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. “God, look at you. I can’t even...you…” he trailed off, too turned on to adequately express just how attractive he found Mycroft, how much he loved him.

In short order, Mycroft had dealt with the fastenings of Greg’s trousers, releasing his cock. Precome beaded at the tip, seeming to quiver with anticipation, and Greg hissed when Mycroft lapped it up and took him in. Acting of their own accord, Greg’s hips thrust up from the floor, pressing his cock deeper into the hot, wet suction, desperate for more. 

“This isn’t going to last long,” he panted, breath coming short and sharp. Mycroft hummed, flicked his tongue into the slit, swirled it around the head, and dropped back down fast, grinding shamelessly into Greg’s leg as his mouth worked, suction and tongue and teeth coming together to push Greg over the edge and headlong into oblivion. His back arched as he came and Mycroft took him deep, swallowing everything he had to give.

“Fucking hell,” Greg gasped, sagging into the floor, boneless. There was a dazed sort of laugh from Mycroft, and Greg laboriously lifted his head to look at the younger man, finding him panting against his hip. He took a moment to appreciate the view, and then reached down to tug his partner’s arm. 

“Mm?” Mycroft hummed, and pressed an absent kiss to Greg’s exposed hipbone. 

Tugging again, Greg said, “Come ‘ere,” wanting to get his hands on his lover. Mycroft moved, with markedly less than his usual coordination, until he was properly within range of Greg’s hands. Immediately taking advantage, Greg stroked one down his back to cup his arse and pressed a thigh against Mycroft’s crotch. To his surprise, what he found wasn’t the swollen, heavy cock he’d been paying attention to minutes earlier, but one going soft post coitally. “Did you come?” he asked, slightly stunned, but needing to be certain.

“Hmm, yes. Now I really do need to bathe,” Mycroft replied, slightly pink in the face, distaste evident in his tone. 

Delighted, Greg captured Mycroft’s lips in a satiated, lingering kiss. “God, I wish I was seventeen again.”

“What? Why?” Mycroft asked distractedly, absently playing with Greg’s chest hair.

Lifting a leg to wrap around his lover and enjoying the intimacy of the moment, Greg said, “Because I want you again.”

Mycroft gave a self-conscious half-laugh. “I very much doubt your seventeen-year-old self would be remotely interested in me.”

“Oh, he would. Miles of leg, a fantastic arse, and gorgeous eyes? He was young, not stupid,” Greg’s lips brushed Mycroft’s jaw as he spoke. “I like this position; I don’t have to look up to kiss you.”

Amused, Mycroft murmured, “Everyone is the same height horizontal.”

Taking care not to leave a mark that would last for too long, Greg nipped and kissed Mycroft’s neck, paying special attention to the areas that he knew were sensitive. “I love having having you on me like this. You feel so bloody good.” 

“I really do need to bathe. And clean my teeth,” Mycroft replied with a faint moue of distaste at the squishing of fluids in his pants.

Dropping his leg with a regretful sigh, Greg carded his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. “I know. Doesn’t mean I want to let you go, though.”

The kiss Mycroft bestowed was sweet and tender. “You could come with me.”

Greg smiled against his partner’s lips, only too happy to accept that particular offer. “Sounds like a plan to me.”


End file.
